What Mr Mushnik Means
by bustoparadise
Summary: At age 21, Seymour reflects on his childhood with the man he'll call his father-and the man he'll murder. Vignettes. Pre-canon.
1. Chapter 1

Part 1: Skid Row Home for Boys: Semen – Age 11, 1952

While Seymour tends Dandy, his dandelion, in his old cracked pot, and Ralph reads The Amazing Spiderman, the word comes. It comes from Little Jimmy, who always knows things, and is always there before the adults.

"Hey, Semen! Pig! Some geezer's looking for unadoptables." Little Jimmy's gang crowd around them. Seymour puts his hand protectively over his pot.

Ralph's face flushes. "What's the toll today?"

The gang call out suggestions. The noise attracts the attention of some others, but most of the boys ignore them. This is nothing new.

"Pig gets a pink belly and I get his comic," Little Jimmy announces. "Semen gets a wedgie and noogies from Tom and Ted. It is a very good comic," Little Jimmy explains.

"Sounds fair," Seymour says dully.

They pay the toll and are about to enter the Home when Ted smashes Seymour's pot. Dandy lies dying on the ground. The gang laughs as Seymour yelps and picks him up.

"C'mon, Seymour," Ralph snaps as he drags him into the Home.

"Ah, boys, I was just looking for you," says thin, neat Mr. Waterson. "Mr. Krelborn, throw out that weed and get yourself cleaned up. We have a visitor waiting in my office."

He's not a weed, Seymour wants to say. But someone is looking for unadoptables. Isn't that worth a flower? He mutters, "Sorry," to Dandy as he drops him in the garbage.

He rushes into Waterson's office as fast as his recent wedgie permits him. He sits next to Ralph. Mr. Waterson is behind his desk. A portly brown-haired man turns to look him over. He has sharp eyes.

"Ah, and here's Seymour. Seymour, this is Gustav Mushnik."

"H-Hello, Mr. Mushnik."

"You boys have been with us a long time," Waterson says. "When boys aren't adopted within five years, we look to alternative methods of releasing them. Mr. Mushnik has kindly agreed to one of these methods. In short, boys, Mr. Mushnik will give one of you food, board and wages, and in return you will work for him. If he finds you satisfactory, the arrangement will continue until your majority. This is," he looked at the two of them from over the tops of his glasses, "a real job with real pay. I trust you understand that? Excellent. Now, Mr. Mushnik…?"

"All right, boys," Mushnik says. "I'm a florist. You know what that means?"

Seymour's heart leaps in his chest. "You work with really pretty flowers, like chrysanthemums and daffodils and fleur-du-lis." After that, it isn't much of an interview.

It's Saturday and the sun is shining; only Ralph, staring at his Dick Tracey comic, is in the room as Seymour packs. Once he fills up his box, Seymour tries to get his attention.

"Don't say it, four-eyes," Ralph grumbles.

"You'll get out soon, Ral—"

"I'll slug you if you don't shut up, Semen," Ralph snaps.

Life had thrown them together; Semen and Pig, the two boys picked last for stick ball, the two boys chosen first for swirlies and Indian burns. You don't go through years of that without saying goodbye, no matter how mad Ralph looks.

"Bye, Ralph."

Instead of slugging him, Ralph grunts and turns back to his comic. Seymour leaves, his steps light. Mr. Mushnik is waiting for him at the gate, so Little Jimmy's gang can't touch him as he crosses the grounds.

He looks back one last time at Skid Row Home for Boys. At 21, Seymour has never gone back. The closest route to the wholesale flower district is past the Home. Seymour takes the scenic route.


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2: Mushnik's Skid Row Florists – Kid, age 12, 1953

"Sir, am I Jewish?"

Mr. Mushnik stares at him. "What put a crazy thought like that in your head?"

"The kids at the Home always said I was."

"What about down there?"

"Huh?" Mr. Mushnik drums his fingers as Seymour figures it out. "Oh! Oh. Um. No. But I thought, maybe, my last name—"

Mr. Mushnik rolls his eyes. "You're not Jewish. Good thing, too, I'd hate to be seen with you at temple. Back to work!"

Seymour feels rather displaced. He'd always thought he was Jewish. The idea of celebrating Hanukkah and playing with driedles made him feel special. But he wasn't Jewish. Was that why Mr. Mushnik wouldn't adopt him?

Mr. Mushnik says, "Although your last name does sound like a Yiddish word I know."

Seymour's heart beats faster. "Really?"

"Mmhm. Krelboyne. It means idiot."

* * *

><p>Kid, age 13, 1954<p>

Mushnik's Skid Row Florist has the front room, with the display cases and flowers galore. Seymour scrubs windows and sweeps the floor to keep things tidy. The counter, with the cashbox and the radio, is where Mr. Mushnik sits. Seymour slept under that counter until two months ago, when Mr. Mushnik had a fridge and a toilet installed in the basement. He tells Seymour that someday he'll get a shower. The back room, cluttered with supplies, leads to the basement.

Seymour enters from the side door, from the alleyway where the trucks park. "Here's the new shipment of geraniums, sir!" His arms tremble under the weight.

"Don't drop it," Mr. Mushnik growls the warning from behind The Skid Row Herald. Seymour sets the first box down on the counter. When he comes back with the second one, Mr. Mushnik is reading the label on the first box, frowning.

"Seymour, can you explain to me why, when I ordered geraniums, we have chrysanthemums?"

Seymour's stomach plunges towards his feet. Mr. Mushnik trusted him to fill out the order form.

Mr. Mushnik has very sharp eyes indeed. "I understand they have the same number of syllables. But they are most certainly not the same!"

"I thought I checked the right box," is all he can say.

Mr. Mushnik doesn't hear him. "Do you know why they're not the same, Krelborn? Because our supplier sells us chrysanthemums at one dollar more than he sells us geraniums. How many boxes do we have?"

"T-two."

"How many flowers in each box?"

"Eighteen."

"How many dollars did your screw up cost me?"

Seymour moves to get a pad of paper and a pencil, but Mr. Mushnik gestures him away. "This is simple multiplication, boy. You learned this in school, remember?"

Seymour gulps. Two times eight. Two times eight is—

"Are you even trying?"

Two times two is four. Two times three is six. Two times—

"Are you building a bomb? A rocket?"

Two times— Tears prickle at his eyes; his horror washes all math from his brain.

Mr. Mushnik grunts in disgust. "Look! Now he's crying. Got in himmel!"

"Please stop."

"Oh, he protests, does he? He cripples my business and now wants to get away scott free?"

"N-no! Just stop yelling at me." With a sudden surge of courage and anger Seymour never knew he had, he shouts in a tight, thin voice, "You're not my father!"

"Yeah, and who'd want to be?" Mushnik replies, dismissively waving his hand.

Seymour stands, shaking, then bolts from Mushnik's Skid Row Florists. He's never coming back. The streets become a grey blur. He trips over a bum ("Hey! Punk!"), scraping his hands as he catches himself.

He stays in the library until it closes at ten. Seymour stays in front of it, in the lamp-post light. There's a noise from the alleyway nearby; the rattle of a trash lid. A siren wails in the distance.

People are moving about the dark street. Seymour's heard about these kinds of people. Murderers, robbers, the 'bad women', hop heads who'll do anything for their next fix.

Outside the pool of lamplight, figures are gathering.

"Hey, kid, wanna make some scratch?" says a figure in the dark.

He shakes his head. The figures don't leave. They come closer. Seymour bolts again to the sound of laughter.

Mr. Mushnik is waiting for him when he returns. The bell rings as the door opens. "About time. Those thirty-six dollars are coming out of your pay."

Seymour throws his arms around him.

"Ack, get off," Mr. Mushnik grumbles. But he only shoves him away after a few seconds. Seymour takes comfort in that.

* * *

><p>Kid, age 15, 1956<p>

Mr. Mushnik plays poker every Friday with "a buncha Polack slobs" – he never comes in earlier than noon on Saturdays. His sister Sylvie lives in Czechoslovakia, "the old country." She "married some goy watchmaker." Mr. Mushnik sends her money every few months to help out. He has three nephews. Once or twice he's mentioned a lady-friend, but he prefers the life of a confirmed bachelor. "I already got a bum ticker; I don't need any more health problems." Mr. Mushnik willingly tells these things to Seymour.

One night Seymour learns something about Mr. Mushnik he never expected to.

It's near closing time when the order comes. "Seymour, set the traps!"

Seymour hates setting the rat traps. As much as he hates the skittering sound in the walls, he also hates the sound of that deadly snap – especially when it comes down on his own fingers. He sets two of them. When he comes back up, Mr. Mushnik is drinking from the silver flask he keeps in the top lefthand drawer of the counter. It's a common occurrence around the holidays.

"That was quick," Mr. Mushnik comments. Seymour grunts in assent and starts watering the poinsettias.

"How many did you use?"

"All of them."

"Where'd you put 'em?"

"Under the stairs, by the crack in the wall…um, near the bathroom…." Too slow. Seymour feels those eyes burning into his back.

"You used them all, huh?"

"It's almost Christmas, sir. Peace on Earth, goodwill….can't we give them a break?"

"You want to save your fellow vermin, you little rat? Or are you just too stupid to set the traps properly? Never mind, I know the answer to that! Come on!"

Mr. Mushnik staggers as he goes down the basement stairs. Seymour moves to help him, mildly alarmed – this is worse than usual. He takes the box of traps from him.

Mr. Mushnik eyes the room critically. "What a dump." Seymour notices the grungy floor, the old Cola bottles and the scattered books he usually ignores.

He orders Seymour to set all the traps. He shouts at Seymour when a trap almost takes his cuticles off. He shouts at Seymour for using the wrong kind of bait. He shouts at Seymour for being too quick and shouts at Seymour for being too careful. This is worse than usual.

When Mr. Mushnik turns to walk back upstairs, he almost falls backward. For a moment Seymour wants him to fall all the way. Then he's behind his boss, ready to catch him.

"Sir…is something wrong?"

"Krelborn, with all due respect, piss off." Seymour slings an arm around Mr. Mushnik's shoulder and begins to help him up the stairs.

He leans on Seymour, muttering, "Eleven years. Should be nothing."

"What should, sir?" He's heavy – a few steps up and Seymour is already out of breath.

They're halfway up the flight when he gets his answer. "My brother. Jozef. Since the war. No grave, no body. My sister survived the camps, Jozef disappeared…and all the time, I was here. My uncle had no children, he brought me here to make my way in the world. Me, the baby of the family. The lucky one."

He looks around and chuckles. "Fucking luck." His face is wrinkled, and very old. He's breathing through gritted teeth and his eyes are damp.

Seymour's stomach has sunk to his feet. He never thought anything could hurt Mr. Mushnik. "Oh."

At 21, Seymour knows he should have said 'That's horrible' or 'I'm sorry, sir'. They aren't great words, but anything is better than 'Oh,' which isn't even a word, really, just a placeholder noise. He might have gone on to suggest that Mr. Mushnik was spared for a reason, or say that Jozef is in a better place.

But he was 15, and stunned, with only a moment to think.

He tries again. "S-sir—"

"Shut up, Krelborn."

Mr. Mushnik never mentions it again. Seymour used to torture himself wondering if he missed an opportunity to be adopted that night. Now he realizes he needn't have bothered.


	3. Chapter 3

Part 3: Mushnik's Skid Row Florists – Schmuck, age 16, 1956

Mr. Mushnik is on lunch break. Seymour looks up from Gardening Today as the bell over the door rings.

The girl's name is Janet, and she is very pretty: blonde hair in a ponytail, bright blue eyes, white teeth, clean clothes in pastel shades, a book bag slung over one shoulder. But her skirt confuses Seymour. He didn't know they made skirts that short.

She stands close to him as he points out what bouquets she could get her girlfriend. The poor gal had a car accident; Janet's obviously a wreck about it. Those blue eyes tear up as she says she just doesn't have ten dollars on her, could he please do her a favor, she'll pay him back tomorrow….Seymour tells himself he's being a nice guy, but in the depths of his soul, he knows what decided him: that very, very short skirt.

She hugs him before she leaves. It makes him feel strange and squirmy; he stands behind the counter, staring at Gardening Today with his mind on something far different from plants.

When the fever clears, he realizes he has to pay Mr. Mushnik back. He checks the price book – the Deluxe Get Well Special bouquet is ten dollars and seventy-five cents. Janet paid five dollars and fifty cents. He runs to the basement and upends his Maxwell Coffee can. Two dollars and two quarters spill out.

Seymour looks sadly at his money. He'll have to wait another week to buy some food, but he can make his bread and milk last that long if he's careful. He puts all but one quarter in the till. Maybe Mr. Mushnik won't notice?

The first thing Mr. Mushnik says when he comes back is, "Ah, you sold our Deluxe! Wonderful job, boychik!" The rest of Seymour's day is hell.

Seymour is downstairs as Mr. Mushnik cashes out. "Seymour, come up here for a minute." Seymour does.

Mr. Mushnik's voice is casual. "I notice we have three dollars missing. I think, how could I have been so careless as to undercharge someone? Ah, but then I remember, that you were in charge of the store for one hour. And I think, would Seymour really steal from me?" His voice is rising. "I, who took him away from that orphanage, put a roof over his head! Is this how he repays me? Is it, you little rat?"

"No!" Seymour answers quickly, face white. "No, sir, I didn't steal anything. It's just—a customer came in and didn't have enough money—"

Mr. Mushnik is coming towards him. Seymour hurries to the other side of the counter, keeping it between them.

"And you didn't tell them to go to the bank while you reserved their bouquet? The bank is three blocks away! Instead you let them rob us!"

"It—you're always telling me about good customer service, sir—" Seymour slips to the other side of the counter when Mr. Mushnik reaches his side.

"Good customer service is for people who pay! Not petty thieves!"

"We weren't robbed! It's just— her friend was in the hospital, and—"

Mr. Mushnik stops dead, chest heaving. Seymour moves a few steps closer to the back room, ready to make a run for the basement.

"She?" Mr. Mushnik's eyebrows bunch together. Like he's figured it all out. "She! Oho! I forgot that it's spring – the time of year when dogs start sniffing around each other."

Seymour opens his mouth. Then he remembers his reaction to Janet's hug. He squirms, blood rushing to his face, sure that Mr. Mushnik knows exactly why.

Mr. Mushnik makes a noise of disgust. "You're supposed to chain up male dogs when a bitch is in heat. Get out of my sight before I do that to you!"

"She wasn't a bitch," Seymour mutters to his basement wall.

Mr. Mushnik says nothing to Seymour the next day that's out of the ordinary. Janet does not come in to pay what she owes them.

It's Saturday night when Mr. Mushnik calls Seymour over to the counter. Seymour has this Sunday off.

Mr. Mushnik pulls down the blinds and turns the sign from 'open' to 'closed'. He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, then beckons Seymour closer.

"Seymour, how old are you?"

"Sixteen, sir."

"And you never knew your father?"

"They found me on the steps of the Home, wrapped in a blanket with my named pinned on it. I checked the phone book. No Krelborns in New York." He's told this to Mr. Mushnik before. It's not difficult to remember. Seymour looks at his feet to hide the resentment that flares in him.

"Right, right," his boss says dismissively. Then he sighs heavily. Seymour looks back up and sees him pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Well, since you have no one to teach you to be a man instead of a lowly beast, it falls to me. I tell you what my uncle Vlad told me this when I was twenty – twenty, mind you, because I was a proper gentleman and not Skid Row trash!

"He said, 'Boychik, you are a young man now. What this means, we all know. My child, I give you ten dollars. I do not want to see you spend it or hear of you spending it and if word of you spending it reaches your Aunt, I will ring your neck. But spend it you may, with my blessing.' And here, you rat, I give you ten dollars," he presses the bill into Seymour's limp hand.

Obviously he'll have to call a doctor, because Mr. Mushnik is out of his mind. "What?"

His boss rubs his temples. "How to put it so you can understand?" He looks around the store, then turns back to Seymour.

"Seymour, what happens to a plant when it's been over-watered?"

The question is so simple it takes Seymour a moment to respond. "It dies."

"Good! Now, what do you do to save that plant?"

"You drain the pot, sir." Does Mr. Mushnik think he's five?

"Exactly!"

"But it depends on the damage. Sometimes you have to re—"

"Shut up! Drain the pot. That's perfect. You have tomorrow off. Go, my boy, and drain your pot before you get any sicker." He laughs. "And if you cannot do that for ten dollars on Skid Row, you're not looking hard enough!"

Then Mr. Mushnik takes in the expression on Seymour's face. "You have no idea what I'm saying, do you?"

"No, sir."

"Metaphor is too complicated a notion for you to grasp, is that it?"

"This one is, sir."

"This is what I get for trying to help you. Slobs like you don't deserve anything! Give me my money back, you schmuck!"

Seymour does. At 21, Seymour still has no idea what that was about. That's why it sticks in his mind.

* * *

><p>Schmuck, Age 19, 1959<p>

Mr. Mushnik says they need fresh blood. "And you bore the hell out of me, Krelborn." Seymour bores the hell out of himself, sometimes, and agrees that another person is a good idea. Not that what he thinks makes much difference, really.

There were three applicants; today is a day for interviews. Looking back, Seymour can't remember the other two. This is all Seymour does remember:

He's on his knees, sweeping around some of the larger potted plants on the floor. The bell chimes as the door opens. Seymour is halfway done and really wants to finish up – he says, "With you in a sec!" and continues sweeping. The dustpan is almost full.

Shoes – high-heeled – click towards him. A leopard-skin heel catches his eye. "It's so lovely in here, isn't it?" says a light, female voice.

Seymour looks upward. The vision in front of him is fairytale princess and Hollywood movie-star all in one. Her dress is bright red and shiny, with cloth roses around the front and sleeves. Her milky white shoulders are bare, a green snakeskin purse slung over one. Even the harsh overhead lights don't wash her out, steal the healthy glow of her cheeks or the bright redness of her lips. Her long fingernails match her dress exactly, twinkling like jewels.

She's looking at him in the eyes. No one ever looks him in the eyes.

Seymour squeaks a noise that could be considered 'yes.'

She doesn't shift her gaze and her smile doesn't falter. "I'm Audrey. I'm here for an interview with Mr. Mushnik?"

"Oh, uh, h-hi." He can't move. "He's in the back."

"Thanks! What's your name?"

"S-Seymour. Krelborn."

"Nice to meet you, Seymour." Audrey bends closer to him – Seymour tries to keep focusing on her face – and says, "If all goes well, we'll be seeing a lot more of each other." She straightens, smiling, and Seymour can't help but smile back.

Audrey turns to go to the back room. Seymour feels a sudden urge to say something to keep her here just a moment more.

"Good luck!" he stammers.

She shoots him a bright smile. "Thank you! I always get so nervous."

"Aw, well, you don't look it, not a bit."

"That's so sweet – thanks again, Seymour." Audrey click-click-clicks over to the back. As she lays her hand on the doorknob, she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Muscles ripple in her swan-like throat as she swallows. Her expression becomes serene, which only deepens her beauty. She reanimates momentarily. She smiles, her eyes open, and she confidently steps through the door.

Only when she's gone does Seymour test getting to his feet. The world spins. He slinks over to the back room to hear the interview.

Audrey has a lot of experience in the retail industry. She's worked as a saleswoman at Sally's Shoe World, as a bag-girl at Skid Row Foods, and as a waitress at Wannabes Diner. Her assets are her experience, her hard-working attitude, and her outgoing personality. Her weaknesses are that she used to have a punctuality problem, but she's working on getting that fixed. She sees herself working here in five years.

As she leaves, she shoots Seymour a happy smile. "Finally over! It was really nice meeting you, Seymour."

"You too, Audrey."

After she leaves, Seymour eventually remembers to empty his dustpan and put away his broom. When he goes to the back, Mr. Mushnik is reading over the resumes.

"So, whaddaya think, sir?"

"Tony from Jersey's the only one with floral experience, and he's a no good greasy wop," Mr. Mushnik growls.

Seymour has to play this carefully. Mr. Mushnik won't hire Audrey if he thinks Seymour is interested in her. It will be an intricate dance of manipulation.

"Pretty thing," Mushnik comments casually.

"Hmmm? Oh, I didn't notice."

Mr. Mushnik always knows when he's lying.

"I…didn't. Really!"

"Shut up, Krelborn. Well, we won't be seeing any more of her," Mushnik decides. "As if I need you mooning over her and causing mass destruction and mayhem in my store!"

"Sir, please—" Where the inspiration comes from, he'll never know. "—A pretty face might bring in some more customers! Maybe a woman's touch is just what our little shop needs?"

Mushnik snorts. "We don't want the type that'll be here just to gawk at a salesgirl. Other than you, we're tryin' to keep out the vermin!"

In the end, a week of no customers pushes Mushnik over the edge. Seymour knows Audrey is in when Mr. Mushnik asks him if he could keep his eyes in his skull if she were around all day.

"I can, sir," Seymour says eagerly.

"And no office romance!" Mushnik snaps. "If I ever hear of you two going steady…."

The idea is flabbergasting. "Me and her, sir? Heck, that'll never happen." He gestures to himself, glasses and gangly limbs and pimpled skin.

Mushnik glares at him, as if trying to catch any hint of mockery. Then he laughs. "If there's one thing you know, it's your place, isn't it?"

"Of course, sir."

For all of Seymour's protests to the contrary, it's very hard to keep his eyes in his skull when Audrey is around. A lot of pots get dropped, feet get stepped on, sales pitches get babbled, and even a few plants don't get watered like they should.

Mr. Mushnik is forced to yell at him a lot. "Seymour, this hurts me just as much as it hurts you," he tells him once. Seymour is not entirely convinced it does.

Eventually Seymour can talk to her normally. They become friends.

Audrey changes the dynamic between Seymour and Mr. Mushnik. Audrey's presence makes them pretend to like each other sometimes. Mr. Mushnik even gets Seymour a Christmas present – socks, but Seymour doesn't complain.

At age 21, Seymour reflects that these are the happiest years of his life.


End file.
